


Hand Grenades

by CrookedBarbarian



Category: House of Cards (US TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-01-06 10:27:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12209394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrookedBarbarian/pseuds/CrookedBarbarian
Summary: "His daddy didn't beat him."His relationship with his father has always been a strange amalgam of hero worship and hate.





	1. Close Only Counts...

"His daddy didn't beat him."

"And I got angry. That boy had a _good_ house, a _good_ family. The sort I would have killed for…" 

-(4.2, Chapter 41)

* * *

The first time his father turned on him, he was six. The slap had his ears ringing till dinner. When he looked in the mirror, there was a matching red mark on his cheek, and he'd stared in wonder at how large the hand was compared to his own. A handprint bruise bloomed on his forearm where he'd grabbed him and he wore it like a battle scar.

The first time he came away with a broken nose, he was eight. He'd had all the grandiose bravery and recklessness of a child who had yet to learn how much the world could hurt.

Rage had slashed his back to ribbons for the first time when he was thirteen. After that, his father would take a kind of glee in regularly lashing his back bloody with his worn belt. He had talked back too much and too loudly. It cost him, but the wrath only hardened his bravery. And his hatred for the half-man who had sired him.

At fifteen, he broke his first bones. Coming home to see his mother curled into herself against a wall, half-conscious with blood running down her face was more than he was willing to bare. Rage exploded inside him and he threw himself at his father, who had his mother's blood still fresh and sticky on his knuckles. His father had answered back with his own blows while his mother screamed at them to stop. Neither heard her. That night, he resolved he would never see someone he loved suffer and watch in silence. At church that Sunday, he absorbed the pity and distaste in his neighbors' eyes as they saw his mother's face. No doubt they thought her weak, deserving of what most of them saw as punishment, not a tyrant's rage. They said nothing except quietly behind their hands to each other, did nothing. Spineless bastards, all of them.

At eighteen, he went off to the Sentinel with the picture of his father and a white-robed Klansman hidden in the bottom of his suitcase. He'd scarcely known such a mix of pride and loathing that settled like a stone in his gut. For once in his miserable life, his father had done whatever he had to for his family, and sometimes the end justified the measures. He donned his cadet uniform and suffered through Knob summer with enough pride to eat down to his bones. His mother would cry to see him in uniform when he came home to visit, and his father would slap him on the back in an alien gesture of mangled affection. Neither of them had gone to college, and they couldn't fathom how high above Gaffney, South Carolina his ambitions reached.

He stood next to his father's graveside at twenty, solitary except for the pastor and the corpse. His father had had no good qualities and very few palatable ones. He couldn't fault his mother for her absence; he would have persuaded her to stay home, far away from this mess, if she hadn't on her own.

One night when he was twenty-four, he sat in the Harvard cafeteria, and Claire laughed as he went for a third plate. Before their wedding vows, before they were even considering marriage, Claire made him a promise.

When he was twenty-five, he buried his head against Claire's shoulder, letting the tears filled with hate and fear and inexplicable longing slip down his face. His fingers dug into her skin hard enough to bruise, as if she could keep him sane, protect him from the cocktail of pride and loathing that felt like it was eating him inside. Fix the jolt of horror and disgust and rage when he remembered his mother on her knees like that in front of his father with her head wrenched bank - the way she had been crying. And Claire had held him back just as tightly, murmuring with her breath warm and soft against his ear as she tenderly stroked his hair, until his body stopped shaking and his sobs quieted. She understood.

* * *

Close only counts in horse shoes and hand grenades.

 


	2. Six

"Half the trees are dying and we have maybe two dozen good peaches in the whole orchard. If things don't get better, I don't know what we're going to do." Calvin Underwood fidgeted with nervous energy, unable to stand still, his fist clenching and unclenching ominously at his side. His other hand strangled a steaming cigarette while he sent periodic puffs of acrid white smoke bellowing from his mouth.

"We went through the same thing last year. I haven't gotten as much work, but the trees always turn around. And I'm sure I can find more business once it warms up some more."

"Damn this godforsaken place," he snarled. "And the grocer's charging through the nose to line his own pockets, mark my words. We can't even get milk and bread."

"We might have to go without for a while, but we'll manage-" Frank tugged gently on her pant leg.

"Mama, I'm hungry. When's dinner?" His parents exchanged a look, his father's shoulders tensing.

"In a while, honey. Daddy and I need to talk for a little bit. We need to work something out." She stroked his hair soothingly, her eyes soft and regretful.

"We have enough for a day, two if we're careful."

"But it'll be next week before I get my next paycheck.… Maybe the Mallories have something extra…" she floated, then winced when his expression hardened.

"I am _not_ begging from someone else to feed my own family!" She drew back from her place on the couch, but Frank was too young to understand the danger his mother sensed all too clearly.

"Daddy, I'm hungry. When are we gonna eat?"

"Frank, shut up," he snapped.

"But I want dinner. My stomach's making growling noises-"

He was on his backside four feet away when he blinked next. His hearing was ebbing in and out, and his left cheek stung like when he'd been out in the cold too long. Disoriented, he blinked up at his father who was still glaring fiercely at him. Frank's eyes burned, but he was determined not to cry like he was a baby.

"I said keep your mouth shut, boy. You'll get dinner when I say you will, and not a minute sooner. Go back to your room. Your mamma and I are talking."

Next to him, his mother tensed, although his six-year-old brain wouldn't have thought to catch it, her bright eyes burning as she warred between the instinct to keep her son safe and to not make their fates any worse. Fear and sick dread choked her eyes, the look from the knowledge that Calvin would now do to him what he had done to her for so long. She couldn't protect her little boy anymore.

Then a vice wrapped around his wrist, dragging him sharply to his feet, threatening to crush his arm and rip his shoulder from the socket with one sharp pull. Hard brown eyes like his own lowered to meet his as Frank found himself on his feet again. 

"You do not talk back to me, you hear? You'll respect your elders. I raised you better. Now leave your mamma and I to talk before I whip your hide."

"Yes, sir," he nodded sharply. His tongue felt strange in his mouth.

Numbly, he raced down the hall towards the safety of his room, but skidded to a stop when it occurred to him that if he washed his hands now, he'd be able to eat faster. He ducked into the bathroom, the light a little too bright as the bulb sputtered to life.

Something vivid caught his eye from the corner of his vision. He froze in the bathroom mirror, fascinated by the angry red on his face and the purpling sea staining his forearm, like he'd gotten into the paints at school and they'd made a mess. His daddy's hand had wrapped all the way around him and then some. Would he be that big and strong like a giant one day? He thought the matching marks looked tough. They gave him an odd thrill, made him feel towering and hardened, like nothing could bring him down. The pain only proved he could take a hit, maybe fight back. It made him stronger, closer to invincible. More grown up. Fear didn't cross his mind so much as that he'd been punished. He didn't understand enough to be afraid of his father, what rage and helplessness could make someone do. In the space of five minutes, he felt older somehow, and studied his reflection until his cheek faded and the bruise brightened. 

His mother's voice calling him, finally, to dinner jerked him out of his reverie. Silence reigned beneath the clinks of silverware on plates as he shoved peas into his mouth. No one uttered a word. It still sounded like there were wind chimes in his head. If he'd known it would be the last time he'd eat for three days, or have a proper meal for six, he would have enjoyed it more, but he was too distracted. His wrist throbbed and he thought about the bruise. Frank wondered how long it would be before he was that big, before he would never have to be scared of anybody. Today, he couldn't even wrap his head around it, but some day, years from now, he would be even stronger than his father, and no one could hurt him then.


	3. Eight

"What did you call her?!" Frank demanded, his fists clenching.

"You heard me," Jack snarled. The fifth-grader towered over him, the muscles in his arms bulging; he'd been doing manual labor on his parents' hay farm from the time he could haul a bucket.

"You can't talk about my mama like that, you jerk!"

"I just did." Jack shrugged nonchalantly as if challenging Frank to find anything he could do about it. "Hey Underwood, at least you can read better than her now-"

Frank jammed his fist into his stomach, forcing the air from his lungs. Stunned, the larger boy glanced down at him, his mouth quirked in a smirk that was half impressed and half annoyed. Then Frank felt his head whip to the side as Jack's fist collided with his jaw, sending him sprawling to the ground. Furious, he threw himself at his legs and scrambled on top of him when he hit the ground. His tiny fists scarcely made a dent in a boy who was three years older and good deal larger, but it felt good just to try, to have his knuckles slamming into something.

* * *

"Frank," Calvin Underwood barked, and he scrambled down from the tree branches, dropping a half-eaten apple. "I got a call from the principal this afternoon. Said you and Jack Sanders got in a fight at recess."

"He started it, it's all his fault," Frank spat out. "I ain't gonna just stand there and listen to him say bad things. He was calling Mamma names. Like the _really_ bad ones."

"He probably picked that shit up from from his no-good daddy. But you can't go getting in fights like that."

His father pointedly refused to comment on the way he'd flinched climbing back down to the ground, or on his left eye that was half swollen shut and his jaw purple as grapes. Snatching up the discarded apple, he pitched it hard and it collided with Frank's shin.

"I'm not putting up with shit like that from you, boy."

"I'm not saying sorry," he insisted indignantly. "I was right. Jack deserved it. He's a lot bigger than me, but I still got a lot of good hits in. Made him hurt real bad before he pinned me down."

He started to head back to the house, but a strange noise caught his attention and he turned his head just in time to see his father lunging after him, his legs and reach twice as long. The first swing blew over his head as he ducked behind a tree.

"You mouth off to me like that again and you're gonna pay for it."

Frank made to duck around behind him, just out of reach, even though it was in the opposite direction of the house, and slid on loose rocks. Scrambling for balance, he scraped his hands as he caught himself. He'd never understand what made him do it, but he snatched up a small rock and pitched it as his father swung around to face him and struck him in the stomach hard enough to bruise. Fury came over his daddy's features and Frank gulped past an abruptly tight throat. He dashed for the tree he'd just abandoned, the bark biting into his raw palms as adrenaline sent his heart pounding in his chest and made his muscles seem quick and painfully slow all at once. A couple branches up, he thought he'd be safe enough for the next couple hours, but as he pushed himself up to reach for the next one, a hand seized around his dangling ankle and yanked him to the dirt with a thud. 

Anger sharpened his eyes as he dragged himself to his feet, and his legs might have held him, but he scarcely had time to blink before livid fists were pounding into hm, knocking his body back and forth with each blow. Pain exploded in his stomach and he slid across the ground, vindictive half-submerged rocks cutting his cheek and forehead. Gasping for breath, he gradually registered every throbbing point of agony in his already abused frame, tasted blood on his lips before he reached up and realized his nose felt crooked.

Staring up at him blurrily from the dirt, his father seemed like a fuming giant, more monster than man.

"Don't go getin' into fights unless you can win. No boy of mine is gonna be a glass-jawed fag."

Frank groaned as the toe of his boot slammed into his ribs, and he fought the compulsion to scream. He laid there dizzy with pain, his eyes clamped shut against the spiraling world, most of his body throbbing in time to his father's retreating footsteps.

* * *

When he stumbled through the door half an hour later, his mamma's eyes were wide and her hands shook, though he was still too young to put together why. She'd hoped to spare her son from this, but now it was coming for him too. And there was nothing she could do to protect him. She couldn't even protect herself.

"Frank…"

"Boy lost a fight." She made to move towards him, but Calvin's eyes hardened in disgust at his eight-year-old progeny.

"Let him bleed," he growled. "It'll teach him a lesson." Then he slammed the front door behind him to work till sunset.

Silently, she sat her son down and fetched medicine from the bathroom. Concern filled her eyes, but her hands shook only slightly now as she pressed the ice to his swollen nose. Crises she could handle like a general, though the one in front of her made her sick inside.

"He's mad I got into a fight," Frank offered thickly. His tongue felt sluggish and odd in his mouth.

"Your daddy gets a temper sometimes, and he's not very good at controlling it. Sometimes it's better to handle things quietly, Frank. Let me patch you up and-" She hissed as she gingerly removed his shirt to reveal a sea of bruises, then flicked her eyes up to his nose, which was now clearly misaligned after most of the blood had been cleaned off. 

"Mama, what's wrong? You have that funny angry-but-sad look again."

"Baby, we're going to go see Dr. Andrews, ok?"

She should have taken him to the hospital, but the cost would have been astronomical, money they didn't have. So she settled for a neighbor the next place over, a vet who occasionally worked on humans, or maybe he was a doctor who got roped by scarcity into caring for horses and livestock. In places like Gaffney, a lifetime from anywhere, nobody could really ever tell, and it didn't matter so long as the job got done.

Frank obliged the kindly man and sat still, really too sore and jumbled to argue anyway. So he sat there, kicking his feet, his hand in his mother's, musing over his father's reaction. The last words before he'd left the orchard kept popping up in the front of his head, over blows and bruises and fear. It wasn't that he'd _fought_ with Jack Sanders. The problem was that he'd _lost_.


	4. Thirteen

First chapter's updated ;)

* * *

 Frank shoved the front door open to find his father raving, his mother stone-faced and ostensibly unaffected by her husband’s tirade. Despite the volume and the  far-from-empty threats he was issuing, she endured it with a patience Frank remembered her bestowing on him when he was small and volatile. Neither heard or saw him enter, and mostly from a need to exorcise the day he’d had, he slammed the door shut so the window raddled in the pane. Long-suffering spent on unendurable classmates, he heaved his backpack into a corner and turned on his father; his temper was already high, and he could use a solid target.

"What did she do?" he demanded furiously. "What did she do?!"

"Frank, stay out of this," his mother ordered sharply. 

"Mamma didn't do anything. She's a good woman. You can't go laying into her because you want to throw a goddamn temper tantrum. Least when you do it to me, I _do_ shit."

At that, his father's gaze slid coldly to him, and Frank sensed he'd said something wrong. His voice was hard and dangerous, the glint in his eyes bordering on murderous.

"Like fucking boys?" Blindsided, Frank blinked, silent for several agonizing seconds.

"What?"

"Don't play stupid. I saw you coming back out of the trees with that Mexican bastard. The way you two were looking at each other, you might as well have been on your knees choking on his cock."

He hadn’t been yelling _at_ her; he had been yelling _to_ her. If Matías got dragged into his wrath… Frank’s stomach knotted at the thought of endangering the migrant boy who had made him feel delightful, unsettling things he hadn’t known existed. All summer, the boys had worked together harvesting his family’s and neighbors’ meager fruit crops, and he’d realized he felt drawn to Matías in a way that he couldn’t articulate, or even understand. It felt pure, right, natural. They’d done nothing more than hold hands, and only when they were absolutely alone. But evidently they hadn’t been careful enough.

A sharp pain in his arm yanked him out of his head, and he stumbled as his father dragged him with no lack of force out onto the grass.

“Get on your knees.” Woodenly, Frank refused, his heart pounding hard enough in his ears to deafen him.

“What the hell are you doing?”

"Take your shirt off. Get on your knees, boy," he snapped, harder this time. "I'll beat the faggot out of you if it's the last thing I do. No Underwood is going to be a nancy cock-sucker while I'm alive."

He used the buckle end, the gold winking at Frank in the dying light like a knife. Scarlet trails of blood streamed down his back, and the pain made the world reel until blackness ate at the edges of his vision.

For the first time in his life, Frank wondered if his father really intended to kill him.

* * *

Claire ran her hands over his back, the slightly raised streaking scars rough beneath her fingers. When they’d first had sex, it had taken Frank weeks to stop flinching when she touched him. She pressed kisses along his shoulders, before wrapping her arms around him and resting her cheek against his warm skin. 

“If you want me to sleep with my shirt off, Claire…” he grinned at her in the mirror.

“No.” She pulled away. “I just like the way you feel.”

Frank settled himself against the headboard, legs stretched out with his ankles crosses. Settling herself next to him, she handed him a glass of wine from her bedside table, tucked her feet under herself, and leaned against him. A soft smile played at her lips as she rested her head on his shoulder.

“Tell me a story.”

“What do you want to hear?”

“Who was your first love?”

“Matías. I met him the summer I was thirteen.” Her brows rose encouragingly. “He was a migrant worker, and we were together for the next three summers. I never saw him again after I was fifteen. I always wonder what happened to him.” 

"Do you think you loved him?" Claire mused silkily.

"That's hardly fair," he protested with a laugh. "I was barely a teenager. I'd never been in love before; I didn't know what it was." Turning his head to her, he studied her with amusement. ”Why do you want to hear this so badly?"

"Because the people you love are important to me." Frank loved the way she smiled. "They make you who you are." She refilled his glass, the dark liquid sloshing up to the sides. His wife’s eyes were brightly curious now.

“Was Matías the person who taught you about sex?” Frank chuckled softly, took a sip, before looking back at her.

"We hardly did anything. We couldn't. The only time I saw him without a shirt was when we were in the fields in the summer during harvest. We'd hide behind a cluster of old trees and take each other's cocks in our hands and kiss."

"Because you couldn't be seen kissing a boy," she purred sympathetically. 

“His whole family were migrants workers. There would have been hell to pay from my parents if we'd been caught. My father would have lashed my back bloody for being a faggot and Matías would have been out of a job - nobody would have hired him after that. And his family needed that money to eat."

"He was older than you?" She was far too interested and enjoying this way too much.

"Only by a year. But he had four brothers and sisters to feed. They all had to work just to scrape together enough food, and there were a lot of weeks when even that wasn't enough."

_“You come over here right now, boy! I'm gonna skin the hide right off that insolent little ass of yours!”_

Frank looked down into his wine, his voice suddenly rough.

“One night, my daddy lashed me bad enough that I almost had to go to the ER, just because he didn’t like the way Matías and I had looked at each. We couldn’t take any risks, not in a place like Gaffney. Not when it meant risking his family’s ability to avoid starving.”

He felt her warm breath against his skin, felt her breath in the silence. She laced her fingers with his. How long had they been married, and Francis had never told her this story? Minutes stretched over them, five, maybe fifty, lost in good wine.

“He was afraid of you.”

“I think so. It was something, in the back of his head, he knew he couldn't really beat out of me. Didn’t keep him from trying though.”

All those years he lived in fear, and yet both of them still had to be so cautious. Even with the world changing and Supreme Court victories, fear and prejudice were still vicious. Claire couldn’t shake the fact that Francis had been flogged for a mere _glance_. Frank stared blearily down into his nearly empty glass.

“I think I’ve had a little too much.” She took it from him, her fingers closing over his, and her mouth coming warm and sweet to his lips, her tongue slipping inside to toy with his.

“I’ll take this back downstairs. Unless you want me to leave it?”

“No. If you leave it here, I’ll be hung over at my desk tomorrow, and I need to be sharp.”

When she returned, they cocooned themselves in the blankets, their bodies warming each other against the last of the lingering winter chill. They fell asleep tucked against each other like puzzle pieces, fingers entwined. The world was so much less frightening when they had someone to face it with.


	5. Fifteen

Raised voice met Frank as he came in from the back yard, and he realized his  skulking and inability to keep a curfew wouldn’t matter tonight. Toeing off his shoes by the door, he made his way towards the living room, humming under his breath. They didn't hear him; they never did. Leaning against the wall just outside the living room, he watched as his parents screamed at each other, his mamma's voice rising to match his father's furious roars. All but one light was dark and in the shadows, he could see her fists clenched at her sides in angry defiance, but not her crooked nose or the blood already streaming down her face. His fingers twitched as his father leaned forward, but he knew better by now than to interrupt. Still, Frank hated it when they fought, which was almost constantly. But this was different, worse in some way he knew only in his gut, and then his father struck his mother in the ribs with a hard blow from his fist. She doubled into herself, gasping, eyes screwed shut. Frank didn't know almost half her ribs were already cracked or severely bruised. 

"I already told you, I didn't do anything! He's your friend. Why the hell would I fuck your best friend?!" An edge of panic seeped into her angry declaration. 

"Because you're a faithless whore!" her husband spat. His eyes narrowed dangerously, his features twisted in rage, and his voice grew even louder so that Frank thought he felt the syllables ringing through his chest. "I saw the way you were talking to him, how you came back from his house with your clothes messed up when his wife was gone. You had his come dripping down your thighs when you came back in. I bet you're fucking that rich bastard you clean for too. That's why he gave you that sapphire necklace, because he has you flat on your back with your legs spread-"

"Calvin, I would never cheat on you! I love you, you know that. I've been your woman since the tenth grade." 

" _No wife of mine is going to play the whore under my roof!_ "

His hand shot out to wrap around her throat and her eyes went wide with fear. At last, Frank stepped forward, and his heart froze in his chest at the sight of his mom. Half her face was coated in crimson from a gash on her forehead, her left eye swelling shut, and her exposed arms littered with purpling marks. A knee slammed into her stomach, and her legs gave out, suspending her weight by her captured throat. Silver glinted in the lamp light and he realized his father was drawing his hunting knife from his belt.

Without thinking, Frank threw himself at him, knocking his mother free and sending his father to the ground. She thudded against the wall, but his mind scarcely registered the sound. He clawed and pried the knife from his sire's grasp, eliciting a howl when he nearly crushed the man's fingers, and the knife went soaring across the room. 

She screamed at them to stop, begged them not to kill each other, but neither heard her. He rained down his own blows, throwing all his weight behind the strikes while his father pummeled him in turn. The only thought in his head was keeping him away from her so she could survive, throwing himself between his parents and acting as a physical shield for his father's murderous rage. Then the pleading screams ebbed away. They stumbled, tripping over each other's feet as they battled. Frank seemed to go deaf for several seconds as they fell, the silence crushing his ears. Then the ringing crash of shattering glass as they landed on the coffee table, bruised and bloodied, his father half beneath him.

* * *

As the church doors swung open, every pair of eyes turned to them in the sticky morning heat. Silence fell over the sanctuary, broken only by two pairs of feet on the hardwood floor. Frank refused to limp and betray weakness, focusing instead on his mamma's weight on his arm to hold herself steady. His muscles ached; his torso was plastered with bruises and more than a few cuts.  Blood still leaked out of the gash on his hip, threatening to stain his slacks by the end of the service through a stack of gauze. Four broken ribs, a lot more bruised, and a fractured clavicle. It hurt to breath, to move, to think. The pain gave him something to focus on, a distraction from the fury boiling inside him.

It took all of fifteen seconds until the darting gazes and vicious, pompous whispering started, like a breaking wave, washing from one pew to another. The prim debutant ladies and straight-backed Southern gentlemen hid behind their palms and fluttering fans, only a scandalized whisper here or there, like artillery shells, a bombardment of insults and conjecture and judgmental, self-righteous condemnation. All speculating what grievous sin Mrs. Calvin Underwood has committed to bring such dire punishment upon himself. Calvin had a temper, yes, but he would never harm his wife unless she deserved it; she had to have done something _very wrong_ to force his hand.

Frank's jaw clenched as he stared at them. They were all happy to gawk, to spread rumors and destroy her reputation. But not a single one of them would reach out a hand to help. Because at the end of the day, it was _all her fault_. Because they all wanted to stay blind to a tyrant's brutality.

Spineless bastards. All of them.

* * *

Breathless and slightly dazed, he scrambled to his feet. He looked over at his mom, her head fallen against her shoulder. He didn't see the light glinting off the shard of glass until it was racing up towards him and a sharp, searing agony shot through his nerves as his father embedded it into his hip-

Darkness suffocated him as his eyes flew open, his lungs burning for air, until he realized he was face-down. From his pillow, he looked over at Claire, her chest rising steadily, undisturbed. Tentatively, he reached for her shoulder, then froze in circuitous self-debate on if he should let himself wake her or not. This felt childish, waking her up for comfort after a nightmare. Except it had been well-worn memories, not a nightmare, and that unnerved him so hard that his hands were nearly shaking. His fingers brushed over her skin and her gray eyes fluttered open. 

"Francis? Are you all right?" Soothingly, she touched his cheek, and he almost cried. "You look scared."

Dragging in several deliberate breaths, he stared at her in the moonlight, his chest burning. Then the shame crept in with claws and fangs, and he felt humiliated, even with the cold terror, even in front of her. 

"I shouldn't have woken you." But Claire could see his unsteady hands, his wide brown eyes.

"Yes. You should have." Turning onto her back, she drew him closer; his eyes stung. "You know I'll never judge you, Francis."

"He almost killed my mother…" he managed roughly as he laid his head on her chest. Claire's arms came around him and held him fast, her fingers running]through his hair. "He almost killed her, and I was so hot-headed, and I tried to stop him-… I think he would have finished the job if I wouldn't have come back in then. He was angrier than I'd ever seen him. I've never figured out if he was trying to kill me too. He was just so damn drunk and raging…"

Her free hand skimmed over his left hip; the scar was small, but the wound had been deep. Against his will, stray tears slid out of his eyes and wet her skin, but in the darkness, with her, he didn't care. His body tremnled and Claire held him, knew what comfort to murmur as he sobbed quietly in the darkest hours.

It played over and over in his mind, every second and surge of emotion. His fingers caught up the satin of her black chemise; he could feel her breaths under his head and against his temple. Claire was alive and safe - and she would stay that way. Even if he had to spill blood to do it.

 


	6. Eighteen

For the hundredth time, Frank scanned down the packing list, anxious to convince himself he hadn't forgotten anything. The hot June sun streamed through the window of his bedroom, and he realized this was the last time he'd see the place he'd grown up for months.

Two thick white envelopes wrapped in old newspaper lay tucked in the corner of his suitcase. All the money he'd earned was coming with him to Charleston. He didn't trust his father for a second not to rummage through his room as soon as he was gone for anything he could steal or sell to buy alcohol. One more thing would stay sequestered at the bottom of his suitcase, under the lining: the photo of a Klansman, and his father looking proud as anything. Furry and disgust boiled up inside him as he held it, warred with a fierce pride that his waste-of-oxygen father had been willing to do absolutely _anything_ to save them. Frank had never believed in hating for no reason; for an emotion that ate at a person down to their bones, a man should have at least done something to deserve it. It figured that the one half-honorable thing Calvin Underwood did had to be so tainted. But the picture was coming with him anyway, a talisman to remind him that there were times when the thing that needed doing was hard and unpleasant. At the end of his four years, Frank would be a stronger man at twenty-two than his sire had ever been.

On reception day, he was the only one without parents to fret over him, or to help unload half of everything he owned from a car into his new room. Only one suitcase came with him, and Frank was determined not to wear most of the clothes he brought. Thankfully, military school would at least let him hide his dirt poor, small town, farmer's son childhood from coming out in what he wore.

His world dissolved into a haze of uniforms giving orders and stuffing standard issue gear into his bag. Formations, running, lines, more running. But a few hours in, when he slipped his suitcase under the bed and dawned his first Sentinel uniform - a navy t-shirt and black gym shorts - Frank couldn't help grinning to himself. For the first time in his eighteen years, he felt like he actually had a place in something important, a way he could make himself more than what anyone in Gaffney had ever been, and he couldn't help but let himself hope.

As the weeks wore on, they fell into a routine. Many of the kids grumbled at the regimentation, the restrictions, the rules, but Frank drew a sense of purpose and freedom from the stringency. Everyone had the same standards, and the cadre didn't accept mediocrity; it leveled the playing field. At the Sentinel, it didn't matter how rich or poor or in-between their families were. They were all eating dirt, and squelching through forced marches with 50-plus-pound ruck sacks in boots soaked with blood from feet pounded to hamburger. Somewhere in the midst of all the running, marching, and pushing the ground to China, Frank took an instant liking to three boys, bonded by misery and music. One afternoon whilst they were trying to scrub off ten layers of dirt, Frank started humming, and Ken joined in, with Phil and Tim close behind. When someone snapped at them to shut up, the four of them laughed it off and grinned at each other. In short order, they would become the Riflemen, but for now they were just mud-caked eighteen-year-old boys with their faces in the dirt - rankless, not even Knobs.

* * *

When he stepped off the bus, his mom saw him first. She rushed to him like it had been years instead of months.

"You look so grown-up! Are they treating you ok?"

"Momma, I'm fine." Wrapping his arms around her in return, he kissed her cheek. She smelled like the orchards. "I have three meals a day, I'm studying hard, and I have new friends. They even gave me another scholarship." 

His father's gaze sparked at that; money was never far from his mind. He ambled up behind her, studying Frank with a mix of mistrust and pride. College was a strange and lofty height to contemplate for a fourth-generation farmer who had dropped out half way through high school to work. As much as he wanted his son to have a better life than he'd had, Calvin was deeply suspicious of someone who didn't work with his hands or understand real hardship and sacrifice. Little did he know Frank’s ambitions ran even higher than Charleston, or even South Carolina; he was going to _make_ something of himself. Despite her husband’s unease, his mother couldn't stop smiling, and ran a hand down his uniform like she couldn't believe this young man was her son. Tears slipped down her cheeks and she looked like she was about to burst with happiness.

"Frank, I'm so proud of you,” she beamed for the tenth time. She crushed him in her enthusiasm, coming up on her toes to make up the three inches in height. "I told you Calvin that our boy was gonna be somethin' special." 

His father eyed him with an odd expression, like he wasn't sure if the teenager who had left was the same young man who'd come back. The hard slap on his back sent him listing forward. When Calvin rested a hand on his shoulder, Frank didn't know whether to accept the pride he felt welling up in his chest, or to pull away.

"You do great in that fancy school of yours, boy. You'll turn out all right."

It was Calvin Underwood's version of a compliment. The man's eyes were almost soft, and the look he wore would go with Frank for the rest of his life. He would only see his father one more time before he buried him.

* * *

From the day he'd gotten his class ring, he'd never taken it off. Four years of getting his ass kicked to hell and back: he'd never worked so hard for something in his young life. Even so many years later, it reminded him every day of the place and people that had forged him, of the determination it had taken him just to get there, and of how far he was willing to go. If the Sentinel had cemented one vital lesson about himself, it was that he fought to win, and there were times when the fights in life required hitting below the belt. 

Exhausted, Frank sprawled onto the bed, head resting in his wife's lap, and toed off his shoes. His eyes burned and his body felt too heavy to move. Claire started running her fingers through his hair, and he could have fallen asleep for a week.

“Nine straight days and we've gotten nowhere. Do you think if I threaten to expose Roslyn's mistress he'll come around?" he mused.

"I don't think either side would appreciate the new majority whip resorting to those tactics just yet," she smiled. "Charm him and he'll come around." Of course his first test in party leadership would be a crisis.

"You didn't have to get me anything, you know,” he commented idlely after a moment.

"Yes, but I wanted to. You should look commanding if you're going to get the troops to fall in line."

Claire had bought him several silk ties, dress shirts and three new suits, all with some fancy designer on the tag she insisted meant they would last, like the cost was nothing. Part of him still felt a little sick at his wife spending that much money on him: the boy still clawing his way out of the hell hole of rural South Carolina didn’t accept charity. They'd had the townhouse for more than a decade, but there were days he still woke up and couldn't believe he lived in a place like this.

"Do you think we'll pull this out?" he mused several minutes later.

"I have faith you'll do everything you can to make it happen, Francis."

* * *

Claire broke to the surface dragging air into her lungs and took a minute to regain her bearings in the startling sunlight. The ocean was warm and crystal blue, lapping at the shore half heartedly on a calm summer day. Emerging from the water, she smiled at her husband, his nose still in a book despite the sand and sunshine.

Somehow, he wasn't quite sure how, Claire had convinced him to go to the beach. The Republicans had walked out yesterday en masse and the next thing he knew, he and Claire were in a hotel room overlooking the ocean. She'd already had their suitcases packed when he got home. He raised his head in time to catch how the light shown off her lithe, muscular body, and his chest tightened in admiration. His wife was stunning, especially fresh out of the water in a bikini. He beamed at her, and she smiled back.

"Remind me why we’re here again?" he grumbled when she took the lounge chair beside him.

"To ruin their vacation," she returned sweetly with a lingering kiss. "Heather!" She waved and grinned at the couple approaching them as if she was surprised at the encounter several hours from DC.

"Claire. Frank. How are you? What are you doing here?"

"Making sure Francis sees the sun," she teased. "Congress has been working so hard lately, I think he's slept in his office more  than he's been able to come home."

"I see Robert long enough for him to shower and grab clean clothes. This government shutdown business is horrible."

"Yes, it is." She knit her brow slightly. "Francis and I are fortunate that we have enough saved for a while in case the worst happens. But to think of all those people and their families forced to go without a paycheck for who knows how long because of petty politics… It keeps me up at night." Uneasily, Heather Schuster shifted her weight, glancing out at the water to avoid having to look at her husband's opposition for a few seconds while he caught up with her.

"Well, it's a shame the two sides can't agree on what to do about this. But the debt can't keep ballooning unchecked the way it has been. Robert and his colleagues are just trying to do the right thing for the country."

"By forcing millions of people to go without an income, or by robbing hard working people with your demand to slash funding to entitlements? Shafting the lower class I expected, but why Social Security and Medicare?"

"No one ever said-"

"Really?" Frank set down his book, his tone intrigued as he shifted his gaze to Robert. "Because that's not what nearly every one of my colleagues across the isle tell me, Schuster. Your party's demands are ridiculous, and you're so bound by pointless loyalty to a name, that you can't see that. Why can't you see far enough ahead to save yourself?" The man’s jaw stiffened.

"It's time you and your ilk see the consequences of your policies, Underwood. Maybe after the government stops, you'll all come to your senses and do the right thing." Nonplussed, Frank offered his best smile as the man turned to huff off.

"You sure I can't change your mind, Robert? Your bed fellows may think you're a traitor for a while, sure. But in this political climate, you could win a lot of constituent support come re-election season by being a deciding vote in _not_ sending the country grinding to a halt."

He'd be damned if he let anyone ruin his first major piece of legislation as majority whip, never mind something as vital as keeping the country half-way functioning. He pulled out his phone. Robert Schuster was about to find out what happened when he made enemies.

"Doug. Go ahead and ask them what they think about all this. If they're going to fight, then let's make it messy. See how they like it."

In their hotel that night, the Underwoods watched Heather and Robert  Schuster dragged out of their townhouse in handcuffs, looking shellshocked in front of a hoard of reporters. It was a disgusting mess, with tax evasion and fraud charges going back at least ten years, complete with Swiss bank accounts and shell corporations for the less than honest monetary incentives. And more high-end call girls than anyone Frank could remember: well over a hundred names and probably half the man's fortune.

With them down, Republican cohesion would go with them. They still had nearly two entire days to get everyone back to DC to agree a budget, and the circus was much more amenable to reason without the ring leader.

"How did you find those files?" Claire grinned down at him mischievously. "Doug didn't say anything."

"Because it wasn't Doug. I just told him where to look."

"We couldn't find anything, and we'd been searching for weeks."

"Because you boys can't get close to their wives." His brown eyes shown at her and he looked damn impressed.

"All this time in DC and you'd think she would learn how to hide her secrets…"

 


	7. Twenty

He got the call at 7:13 that morning, as he was getting ready for breakfast. Frank marched on numb legs to the administrative office, icy dread weighing down his steps. Hearing his mother's voice on the other end shook him half way out of it; she was all right. But her tone sounded oddly flat as she recited that his father had died of a heart attack in the middle of the night, like she'd said it a hundred times already, or heard it. No tears, no panic. Just a hint of relief she couldn't yet express, but that resonated down through his bones.

"Your father's dead, Frank. And I can't say I'm sorry."

Relief inundated his mind, washing away every other thought. They had survived. They were finally free.

When he walked through the door of his childhood home late that afternoon, he found his mother packing boxes. 

"Frank!" She launched herself at him and wrapped him in a bear hug that almost crushed him.

“You look like you’ve been busy.” She gestures towards the boxes lining the walls of the living room.

"I didn't want to touch his stuff, but I decided about six this morning that I didn't want to look at all his shit anymore." 

“You gettin’ rid of everything, or…”

“Every last fucking thing. That man’s been in my life way too long, and he ain’t staying any longer.” He chuckled and set to work beside her, fierce pride welling in his chest at the woman who’d raised him.

"Is there going to be a funeral?"

"Pastor Garett said he'd burry him tomorrow." Frank considered for a moment.

"Mamma-"

"I'm not going. Nothing in the world could make me pretend to cry for that man. I have half a mind to bring a lighter and set his corpse on fire, but I don't think Garett would appreciate that."

It was hard to absorb the silence. It was peaceful, and that was the problem. Silence only came in between the drunken explosions and fits rage. But now he was gone, and neither of them could quiet believe it.Their voices were oddly steady, and their heads clear of grief, only a half-giddy, incredulous euphoria. They talked late into the night and fell asleep on the couch, coffee dregs gone cold.

When he came out the next morning in a black suit, his mom smiled proudly and reached up to adjust his tie. He was clad head toe in black, even though they both knew the show of mourning was hollow.

"Are you gonna be ok?" She chuckled.

"I have enough to keep me busy, tryin' to figure out what I'm gonna do now without that bastard breathin' down my neck twenty-four seven. I ain't gonna get in no trouble." Grinning, he turned to go. "And Frank? Do me a favor and piss on his grave when you get the chance."

Frank laughed all the way to the cemetery, so hard he almost forgot to school his features into a vague impression of sadness or the paster would think he'd gone mad.

It had rained the last few days and the ground was muddy. Pastor Garret droned on in the funeral script he'd recited for countless poor souls before Calvin Underwood. That same voice that had bored him to death under good intentions every Sunday of his childhood brought some sort of comfort in the familiarity. His mom had a solid ally until Frank could get back to her. They stood alone in the cemetery, birds occasionally breaking into the background. His father couldn't even manage one friend who cared if he was dead. The whole town knew, yet it was empty, fitting for an empty man.

The men headed towards the parking lot in silence. Frank stared straight ahead, not quite able to wrap his head around the reality that he and his mom never had to endure his father again. It would take him quite a while adjust to that idea. At Frank's truck, they shook hands. Garret opened his mouth, but the words seemed to stick. Not even a man of God could find a redeeming quality about Calvin Underwood.

"Frank, your daddy-…"

"It's ok. He wasn't much, but he was what I had."

"And how's your mamma doin'?" Neutrally, he shrugged, his eyes on the bright grass.

"She's doin'. She'll be fine. Check on her every once in while, will you? Make sure she stays that way?" The man nodded curtly.

"Will do, son."

* * *

 On their battered, ancient couch, she tucked his head against her shoulder as she laid protective arms around him. As much as he'd deny it, she could sense her son was relieved to have her to make big decisions for a while. He'd grown into a fine young man, but the last few days had been harrowing for both of them. She'd had to remind herself that, as mature as he looked with his proud baring and serious eyes, Frank wasn't quite all grown-up yet.

"He can never hurt you again, Momma. He'll never beat me again." The words came out thick like his tongue had trouble forming them.

"I know. I'm sorry I couldn't stop him, Frank. There was no reasoning with that man when he got in one of his moods."

He didn't say anything to that; there was nothing he could say. Neither of them could have stopped him, so they'd had to settle for protecting each other as best they could manage. She had resolutely avoided speaking her late husband's name since she'd heard of his untimely demise; she didn't want to invoke the memories swimming around in her head. The faster this twenty-year-long nightmare faded into hazy half-recollections, the happier she'd be. They sat in silence for a long while, absorbing the serene quiet and their new reality. When he finally straightened to roll out the kink in his neck, she turned to kiss his cheek, and took his hands. Her hazel eyes met his dark brown ones, her expression intense.

"You listen here, Frank. You go back to school and graduate and _make_ something of yourself. I'm not gonna have my son breaking his back on a farm and drowning himself in liquor every night. Lucky for me, you were smart enough to get out of here on your own, but I'll disown you if you come back here with shit to show for it. You hear me?"

He nodded, thought of all the times she had held him when he was little, and how much he had missed the way she smelled, vague scents that meant home and comfort. The last of his childhood was over.

"If you're ok with it, Frank, I’m going to sell this place. It doesn't make any money and the crops keep getting worse by the year. I don't have the time or energy to deal with it, and I can make more money working than we ever could here. There’s a developer who said he’d be interested, gas or coal or oil or something. He’s willing to pay me a lot of money too.”

“I’d be happy to see this place gone. I kind of hated thinking about you living here. It… reminds me too much of him."

She had been the one really running the farm for the last twenty years, though his imbecile father had chosen the land. Rocks, all of it, concealed under a thin layer of top soil, and she'd never been so furious in her life. That was the day all her hope had withered and died, when she realized she'd been shackled to a feckless moron. But now she was finally free. Over the last few days, she'd held her head higher, and smiled more than Frank had seen her in his entire life.

At thirty-eight, his mom could finally, really live.

“You let me know if you need anything, ok? Do you have enough food for a while?” Her hazel eyes lit up and she smirked. She arched a brow.

"If I can fit all of this food in the freezer, I won't have to cook for at least a couple weeks, and the neighbors'll keep bringing stuff all month. You might even have to eat some when you come home this summer; Gina Fitzpatrick always cooks like she's feeding an army. This is the most useful your father's been in his entire miserable life."

They sat in silence for a long while, and Frank got up to get fresh cups of coffee.

"Why'd you marry him?" he finally asked idly.

"Because he knocked me up," she responded dryly. "We didn't have a choice back then. My choice was marry him or starve. Course I didn't know I'd be starving half the time with a husband anyway."

* * *

 Over the years, he'd kept his promise. After law school, when Frank came back to Gaffney with Claire, his mother had been thrilled. She adored her daughter-in-law, and Claire loved her back. When he got elected to the state senate, his mom was fairly bursting with pride. When he got elected to Congress, she cried out of happy shock. Her son would have a far better life than she had, with a partner who loved him fiercely, and she couldn’t have asked for more. A Congressman. Her boy was a _Congressman_.

* * *

Claire coaxed him to the townhouse on their second day in DC, insisting a Congressman couldn't live out of a hotel room. He'd get sworn in in three days, and she wasn't inclined to live out of suitcase longer than absolutely necessary. When he asked skeptically if they could afford a place like this, she just nodded, and he swallowed hard. He needed to have a stake in this, to help provide for them, not live off his wife's money. Taking his hand, Claire chuckled when she noticed the apprehensive look on his face. 

"Do you have any idea how much this place costs, Claire?"

"We can afford it, Francis. I promise."

"I'm not taking your money-"

"It's our money," she interrupted smoothly. "We're a team. We're in this together."

"You know I hate how your father gave us the house in Gaffney as a damn wedding present-"

"This is different," Claire smiled.

"How?"

"Because it would be ours. Not our families', not a gift. It can be something we bought for ourselves." She smiled that soft grin that made her gray eyes shine. "Our palace. I know you love it."

He looked around the room again, cataloguing everything they'd seen, taking in the details, the space, the incredible craftsmanship. Here, there would be no slipshod handiwork, not a single overlooked detail. She watched his eyes light at the idea, watched his jaw clench as he calculated what his share of the price would be. Not nearly enough.

"I already spoke with our agent. We can move in in a week if you say yes."

Then he noticed the men in finely tailored suits talking in the kitchen. So that's where Claire had been yesterday… Hugging her tightly, Frank grinned and kissed his wife.

"Yes."

* * *

Muffled footsteps on the carpet drew him from his mountain of work, but he didn't look up until her fingers slid through his hair. Claire smiled down at him perched on the edge of his desk, and his eyes lit as she leaned down to kiss him.

"I came to see if you had time for dinner, or if I was going to be sleeping alone tonight." Frank looked at the stack of files and paperwork, then at his wife.

"You know what, dinner would be good. I'm not going to finish all of this tonight anyway."

"I like this office," she mused proudly. "I need to find you some better artwork, but I think it suits you. Do you have the Hill shaking with terror yet?"

"Only the Republicans."

"Good."

Taking his hand, Claire led him out of the office, and she chuckled when she caught him staring at her. They'd just gotten back from their first trip to Gaffney together since he got elected to Congress in the fall. Spring was unfurling over the city, breathing color into it again.

"Being back there doesn't hurt so much when I know I can get away," he mused. "It used to feel like it was crushing my chest, like it was trying to bury me alive."

"You were afraid you'd be trapped there till the day you died."

Just like she'd been terrified that she would spend her life imprisoned in another Highland Park mansion. They were building a life, the foundations of an empire, and she thought he held his head a little higher after November. This was a platform they could really _do_ something with, significant things.

When she unlocked the door to their townhouse after dinner, it still took him a minute to remind himself they lived in a place like this. That they'd made it so far. He still couldn't quite figure out what to do with a 4,000-square-foot home in the middle of Georgetown, but that didn't make it any less beautiful. Every once in a while, even months later, it hit him that Claire had grown up in places like this, sprawling symbols of luxury and status. He might still be finding his bearings, but his wife was perfectly at home. After he'd dragged her to a hellhole like Gaffney for years, she was finally back where she belonged. Part of him would always be the dirt-poor farm boy, no matter how high he reached.

He'd die before he moved back, because that place had nearly killed him.

Although he knew what Congressmen made, he'd nearly chocked when he opened his first few paychecks: Four times what he'd made in South Carolina. Now he felt like less of an imposter in designer suits and shoes, slowly shaking off the dread that he’d find himself banished to the hinterlands and imprisoned there forever. On Claire’s brilliant suggestion, he was even crafting a thicker, more indistinctly ‘Southern’ accent, playing up a persona of a poor South Carolinian farm boy who’d clawed his way into the halls of power wit grit and determination. Her logic had been brutally simple: assumptions kill, so let people make them.

"Do you want some wine?" Claire ran a hand down his back, and he nodded distractedly.

“How’s your office?”

“The staff is settling in and I found some terrific candidates that I think will really help expand CWI’s footprint.”

"Where'd you go this morning?" Frank smiled broadly.

"That barbecue place I found, Freddy's. I said I wished I could eat his ribs for breakfast, and he told me to call if I wanted to come by in the mornings, since he's there anyway."

"And he actually made you ribs at seven in the morning?" she laughed.

"He did. And they were delicious." Gently, she ran a fingertip down his palm, took a sip of her wine.

"I'm proud of you, Francis."

"I'm proud of _us_. I couldn't have done this without you."

“This is only the first step.”

“Yes it is.”

They shared a knowing smile, already planning their next triumph.

He was carving a place for himself in this new world with Claire, and this townhouse had been their first real step out of the backwaters. Never could he have dared to dream to have so much during his childhood years in Gaffney. He and Claire were partners in life, and they'd done this together, first South Carolina, and now Congress. The two of them were strong apart, but invincible together. They could forge any life they wanted, as great and as high as they wanted, and he had no doubt they would.


	8. Twenty-Four

(A/N - In my headcannon, Claire’s also bisexual.)

(Also Content Note - rampant homophobia)

* * *

 Grinning, Frank sat down with his third plate of the night, piled with fried chicken, mashed potatoes, vegetables, and pasta.

“You’re still hungry?” Claire asked, amused.

“With all the crap they serve here, I have to take the good food while I can get it. The chicken isn’t like home, but it’s better than what they tried to pass off as barbecue last week.” His girlfriend reached over with her fork and stole some of his potatoes, then stabbed a slice of zucchini before he could protest.

“You know there’s breakfast tomorrow, right? You’re not going to starve.”

For a fraction of a second, he froze, not long enough for her to see him do anything more than blink. Then he eyed the economics textbook and the notebook she was scribbling in while they ate. Only Claire would think to bring homework with her to the cafeteria.

“I thought you were studying government,” he floated. “You finished all your general ed.”

“I decided on a joint concentration in government and economics, and a secondary field in history.”

“ _That_ explains why you’re working through dinner. Do you know what you want to do your senior thesis on yet?”

“A case study on the economics of international aid and the roll of non-governmental organizations. I’m going to use the research to start an international NGO. Millions of people die every year because they don’t have access to clean water, and I want to help change that.”

When she glanced up at him, her gray eyes were bright and intense, and he couldn’t help being damn proud of her. They could do incredible things together… Between them, with him Congress and her on the ground doing political work, he and Claire really could _do_ something for a corner of this damned awful world - not just spout empty promises and meaningless platitudes. Because of them, maybe a few less people would have to go hungry, and a few more people would live to see tomorrow.

“Junior year is so much more fun without all the ‘well-rounded’ bullshit. Now I can focus all of my sixty hours a week on things I’m actually going to use.” Frank twirled a piece of broccoli on his fork.

“That’s something I don’t miss. Law may be boring as hell, but at least I can use it for something.” She tossed him a smile.

"What was your undergrad in?”

"Political science, just like every other aspiring lawyer. But if I want to go into politics, I need to know how the system words. It was the best way to arm myself."

“Then it’s probably a good thing I’m studying government.”

* * *

When they got back to their apartment, Claire shed her thousand-dollar coat and hung it in the closet. By now, it was _their_ apartment, even though she technically still had a dorm room and his name was the only one on the lease. She’d co-opted a dresser, and her favorite wine was always in his fridge. They had an effortless, deep companionship that he imagined was how couples who had been together fifty years felt. Having Claire with him every day felt _right_ in a fundamental way he couldn’t process or comprehend. 

But there were still times when the gulf between them almost physically hurt. Like at the reminder that she’d never needed anything a day in her life that her parents couldn’t get her, like when she laughed and told him he wasn’t going to starve and there would always be another meal. He’d chosen to go to the Sentinel specifically because at a military school, food wasn’t optional. His scholarship had covered it just like his tuition and board, and he hadn’t busted his ass to escape Gaffney just to spend another four years pilfering stray apples from the cafeteria so he’d have something to eat the next day. Claire had never known that uncertainty, wondering when the money would run out, or how long it would be before she could eat again.

Piece by piece, Frank was shedding the dirt-poor farm boy in his head and replacing him with the man he wanted to become. But most days, even after a year at Harvard, he still felt like an imposter, like his classmates and professors could instantly tell the thread-count of his suits - and most of them probably could. Unlike his classmates, he choked every time Harvard sent him a bill, and he prayed all this would be worth it.

But Claire didn’t see the cheap suits and the kid from a poverty-stricken hellhole. Where he came from didn’t matter to her; she cared about where the future could take them. The world was changing, and they could be a catalyst.

“Should I go in the other room so you can have some quiet?”

“No. I like having you here. It makes it easier to write.”

She handed him a glass of wine and settled next to him on the couch, her head resting against his shoulder while she read and her hand tucked into the crook of his elbow. They read in relative silence for hours while books took over the coffee table, the corners and covers worn, the pages marred with highlighter and notes scribbled in the margins.

“Do you want me to turn on the news?” she floated into the silence, casually cautious.

Frank’s body went cold, a small but lethal hole blooming in his chest, bullet-sized. From the hard, guarded look in her eyes, he knew it cost Claire just as much to ask as it did for him to hear it.

"Not tonight,” he managed tightly, choking.

The look Claire gave him was full of understanding, and his heart constricted in his chest. He couldn't stand to hear any more about AIDS right now, all the people who were dying who didn't matter.

His blood had run cold last year at the news reports of Gay-Related Immune Deficiency. He'd sent Tim Corbett a letter in scrawling script from unsteady hands, begging him to be careful. He couldn't lose another person he loved, not like this. Not to a death where everyone would insist he deserved to die, and horribly, that god had been right to kill an abomination like him. That his life was forfeit.

Frank couldn't explain why he'd felt violently sick when, during a class debate last August, someone had suggested quarantining all the homosexuals, locking them up like murderers so they couldn't infect anyone with _their_ disease. That they all deserved to die, and good riddance. Frank wasn't _gay_ , he wasn't one of them, so why should it hurt like someone had taken a knife to his gut? He'd only slept with one man since Tim, and that had ended a year ago. Then again, Claire wasn’t _gay_ either, but she still suffered the same razor-sharp agony of ostracization, of being told people like her, like them, didn’t deserve to live. Because they loved people society had decided they shouldn’t.

Their young adult years had spiraled into a living horror, when they should have been full of nothing but hope and happiness. The strain was taking a physical tole on them. Claire had lost much of her vibrant energy over the last six months, and her gray eyes had grown increasingly serious and haunted. They stole moments of happiness, snatches here and there of normalcy, reminders of what the world had been like not two years ago.

Before AIDS. Before death had its hand around their throats. When they could still take life for granted. Though the decade was scarcely over three years old, they both now wondered if either of them would live to see the end of it. Where once the future had stretched endless before them, 1990 now seemed painfully far away.

Frank felt contaminated, like his very skin was toxic. Terror and guilt had been eating him alive for the last three weeks that he had the disease and he could have given it to Claire, ever since they started reporting cases in women whose male partners had AIDS. He felt dazed, like someone had cracked him over the head. Like he couldn't breathe. The thought of losing her, that he could be the cause of her death, was more terrible than he could process.

“I shouldn’t have asked.” Silently, she slipped her hand into his and laced their fingers. “I’m sorry.”

“No. I-… You’re right; I’d rather know what’s happening. Just not tonight.” He shoved to his feet and felt her fingers slip out of his grasp. Her spine straightened as she watched his muscles coil. Liquid brown eyes studied her, filled with desperation and regret; his hands were starting to shake.

“Francis…”

“I’m so sorry, Claire. I can’t stomach the fact that I’ve put you at risk like this.” Standing, she closed the space between them.

“You couldn’t have known, Francis. _No one_ knew.”

”I might have given you something that will _kill_ you-!"

"Francis," she laid a hand on his chest, her gaze firm. "You don't have it. You'd be sick already if you did."

"You can't know that," he snapped desperately. When he blinked, tears spilled down his cheeks. His throat felt like it was being crushed and his eyes burned. "You could _die_ because of me-"

"No. You're not going over this again. If we have it, we have it, and we'll enjoy whatever time we have left together. But you don't have AIDS, Francis. You and Tim had never slept with another boy before, and you always used protection with Jeremy. We're fine.” Then, gently, “We’re safe.”

Despite firm her tone, her eyes were soft. She understood what this was doing to him, because it was wreaking havoc on her too.

"You'll never be alone, Francis," she swore quietly. "I'm here. I'll always be here. We'll get through this together, just like everything else."

Claire slipped her arms tight around his waist and rested her head against his shoulder. It took him a moment to find his voice.

"That guy in my class, Pierce, he said, 'Look, I was right. I told you we should have executed all the gays while we had the chance. Now it's too late,' and I swear to god, I wanted to get up and break his neck."

She cupped his cheek and kissed him softly, before taking his hand and leading him to the bedroom. Silently, they undressed each other and slid into their PJs. It would be an endless, horrible night, with both of them physically sick from dread and fear.

"We shouldn't sleep with anyone else for a while," she suggested, knowing it was what he was thinking. They hadn’t, not since June, but saying it gave her a fleeting sense of control over a threat no one could see or fight. He came back in from brushing his teeth, a grim ghost of a smile playing at his mouth. Thoughts whirling, he hugged her tightly, then took her hands as he drew back slightly.

“Claire. When they figure out how to test for this…"

"Of course."

A soft smile turned her mouth and she ran the backs of her fingers down his cheek. Even though AIDS was untreatable, they would want to know the end was coming, instead of living sick with dread every day wondering if they had months or decades.

She and Frank slipped under the blankets and Claire laid her head on his shoulder in the darkness, her arm across his torso. They held each other, wondering how many more nights they might have like this. Wondering how people could be so cruel and hateful to laugh at an indiscriminate death sentence and dance on another human being’s grave.

"Maybe it won't always be like this," Claire murmured. "Maybe some day they'll stop thinking people like us deserve to die because we're different from them."

Her gray eyes shone with tears in the moonlight, and as he cried in silence beside her he couldn't help but hope she was right.

"I love you, Francis."

"I love you too, Claire."

They slept fitfully, plagued by half-remembered nightmares, but every time they opened their eyes, they weren't alone.


	9. Twenty-Five, Part 1

Content note: rape

* * *

Claire kissed him deeply again and pulled away smirking. She ran a hand down his chest, eyes shining with mischief. 

"You need to relax, Francis. Let me help."

Sinking to her knees, she sat primly back on her heels and smiled up at him, reached for the button on his jeans. He froze. Dumbly, he stared down at his fiancee on her knees, perfectly willing to take him in her mouth. The world blurred slightly as his head throbbed, tinting everything red.

Then a work-hardened hand reached back and wound her hair in its grip, and yanked her head back sharply to expose her throat. Purple bruises marred her face and tears slipped down her cheeks when she blinked, almost choking as he shoved his shaft farther into her mouth, nearly down her throat-

Frank stumbled backward like he'd been struck. It felt like his blood had frozen, like his whole body was cracking apart.

Perplexed, Claire got to her feet, studying him curiously. She might have set his name. Instinctively, his hand snatched around her wrist halfway to his face, his fingers digging into her flesh hard enough to threaten bruises. Stunned, Claire blinked at him in confusion. Eyes blank, his grip gradually loosened and fell away as he realized what he'd done. His hands were shaking violently. His heart twisted in his chest. The air around him seemed scarce, burning his lungs each time he tired to draw a breath. His brain screamed at him to run - towards her, away from both of them - but his legs had turned heavy and useless.

"Francis?" His head snapped up at the sound of his name - in a voice not his mother's. "What's wrong?"

She tried to take his hand, and he jerked away. His mouth drew tight and his tear-bright eyes hardened with fear.

"I can still see her,” Frank managed, his voice breaking. "I can still see my mom on her knees in front of him, and she hated it-"

For half a moment, Claire's body went rigid as her blood froze, and he understood she knew what it was like to scream herself awake, heart icy and pounding with terror. He felt like he was suffocating, and, ashamed, he glanced away for a moment before he could look at her again. Silently, Claire extended her hands, palms up, for him to take if he wanted. He did, more desperately than he would admit even to himself. Her fingers were warm and oddly comforting beneath his. His entire body trembled, with some concoction of fear and shame and helplessness that rent his chest apart and threatened to gut him. She took him in her arms and tucked his tear-streaked face against her. Frank's fingers dug into her skin, like she could take the memories away. Like she could save him.

"I can't stop seeing her, Claire," he managed, desperate and undone. "It won't go away, no matter what I do. I can't stop seeing her like that."

"Francis…" She whisperedwarmly in his ear, kissed his temple as she held him back just as tightly. Her own eyes were burning now.

"Make it stop," he pleaded helplessly against her neck, his voice strangled. "He was going to kill her, Claire. He was going to break her neck. I saw the look in his eyes; she hated it and he wanted to make her suffer-"

Claire let his tears soak her skin and held him while his body shook under the assault of nightmares. She cried with him, because she knew how he felt, her own hands digging desperately into his back.

A long time later, when he could almost breathe again, Claire took his hand and led him to the couch. Curled up against him, her body felt warm and solid and _real_. They didn't speak for a long time, just held each other. Frank ran his thumb over her ring, trying to ground himself in the present.

"Is there anything else I should know, Francis?" she ventured at last. "Anything else I shouldn't do?"

"No." He tipped his head up to kiss her neck gently. Then, "I thought I was ok. I thought I'd gotten past it."

"I don't think you ever get past it," she admitted after a thoughtful moment. "I think you just learn how to not let it eat you alive."

Again, there was that flash of darkness in her eyes, and he knew she had her own living terrors to fight. He wanted to crush the throat of whoever had made her so afraid.

"Wine or bourbon?"

"Wine. Red. I'll get drunk too fast on bourbon."

Claire ventured to the kitchen for a bottle and two glasses. She nudged his shoulder and handed him his glass before settling herself against him again. He stared at the dark wine, the reflection of the bottle on the coffee table. When he'd drunk two and half glasses, tears burned his eyes again and made his voice rough, but he didn't care anymore. He was going to be Claire's husband; if he couldn't tell his wife this, he couldn't tell anyone.

"I was in junior high the first time I walked in on them. I could see into the kitchen when I came home, and she was on her knees in front of him. He had her hair wrapped around his hand and he'd wrenched her head back, with his cock shoved into her mouth. There were tears running down her face, but she was dead silent. Mamma was only ever that silent when things were murderously bad. I just, stood there. Staring. And the bastard looked right at me, with that goddamned smirk on his face. Like he was loving it. He loved making her suffer." His grip tightened perilously around the glass; his hands were shaking again. "He made sure I saw them every so often after that. Forced me to watch him rape my mother. I suspect he loved it even more than he relished beating us. And I never did anything to help her. It was like I was frozen and I couldn't breathe, and I was such a fucking _coward_ -…"

He could feel Claire's muscles had gone rigid like stone against him, and he glanced up to find her gray eyes blank, shadowed. She took his free hand and laced their fingers.

"It makes you think of her." Stoically, he nodded, wishing he was drunk. Wishing he’d chosen the bourbon.

"I should have-"

"And what if he'd killed both of you?" she demanded, a little too sharply. "At least you’re both still alive. Francis, you weren't a coward; you were a kid."

Her breath dragged hard into her lungs, scraping them raw. Now she was shaking too. Claire set her glass down and gently wiped the escaping tears from his cheeks. She couldn't imagine Francis having to see that once, much less having to watch it over and over and over. And what his mother must have felt for all those years, knowing it would never end. Once had been horrible enough, but at least it was over... Her stomach felt like she'd swallowed glass. She pressed her self a little tighter against his side, touching him from shoulder to hip to knee, and when he looked at her, Frank realized she was crying again too.

"Claire, I-"

"I know."

"I love you."

"I love you too."

They didn't sleep that night. The two of them watched movies all night in the living room with the lights on, working there way through another bottle of wine. As sunlight started to seep in through the windows, Frank and Claire finally drifted off, their eyes burning and heads foggy. Their hearts were still broken, and there would still be times when the night terrors would come, but they weren't alone. They understood each other's deepest fears and most terrible memories, and they could finally, finally feel safe.


End file.
